


The Letter

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what did that letter Illya receive say?  Napoleon had to know.</p><p>Originally published on ff.net under "Who'd Thunk it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

Napoleon hadn’t meant to open the letter.  He usually was on automatic when he opened mail and, as a result, didn’t even realize that one of Illya’s letters had been mixed in with his.   His first clue that something was off was that the letter was written in something other than English.

 _Stimae Illya_ started the letter and Napoleon guessed it was Dear Illya or something along those lines.   There was an ornate crest on the linen paper and Napoleon realized it was a crest.  He squinted at it and managed to read the motto:  _În moarte, onoare._

Again that was no help and it wasn’t any of his business.  He carefully folded the letter back up, placed it with Illya’s mail and went back to his own correspondence.  Yet his mind kept going back to the letter again and again.

It was a long half hour before Illya entered.

“Good morning, Napoleon,” he said, smiling slightly.  “What an unusual sight - you with your nose to the administrative grindstone.  Is this a sign from above?”

“Laugh it up, Blondie.  Someday this might all be yours.”  Napoleon waved his hand over the piles of report folders he still had to scan and initial.  People thought being an agent was all fun and games.  In the end, it was all about the paperwork.

Illya sat and sifted through his mail, frowning when he came to a certain envelope.  “Napoleon, did you?”

“It was mixed in with mine.  I didn’t read it.  I couldn’t read it.  What language is that?”

“Romanian,” Illya muttered absent-mindedly.  

“I thought you were Russian.”

“Ukrainian, there is a difference.”  As Illya scanned the letter, he became more and more visible agitated.  He stood and faced Napoleon with stiff formality.  “Napoleon, I need to request a temporary leave of absence.”

“What?  When?”

“Now, I’m afraid.  I will of course also fill out the necessary paperwork and approach Mr. Waverly with my request.”

“Of course.  God knows you have more than enough vacation time accrued.  You’ll have Personnel doing handsprings.  Is there something I can do?”

“Yes, Napoleon.  Pray for me.”  Illya turned on his heel and walked swiftly from their shared office, the letter still on his desk.

He shouldn’t have, Napoleon knew this, but he couldn’t resist.  Picking up a pad of paper, he quickly transcribed the letter onto it.  He’d only just returned to his desk and slid the pad away that Illya returned and gave him a slightly watery smile. 

“Something wrong?”  To Napoleon it looked as if Illya had been ill.  His partner looked a bit green around the gills and his face and bangs were wet as if he’d washed his face. 

“I forgot my letter.  Excuse me.”  Illya snatched up the sheet and left.

Napoleon managed to get through three files before his phone rang.

“Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, you are aware of Mr. Kuryakin’s request for leave.”  Waverly cut right to the chase and Napoleon grinned.  The old man never was one to waste words on his agents.

“I am, sir, and it’s fine with me.”  Napoleon grimaced as he looked over the stacks.  “I’m deskbound for a while, anyhow.  When is he leaving?”

“He’s already left.”

“Oh.”  _Well, thanks for asking after the fact,_ Napoleon thought.  It was odd that there was no good bye or any comments about things he was working on.  Whatever was in that letter, it must have been a pip.

                                                                                ****

Napoleon walked into his apartment and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  After a day like today, his apartment was indeed his castle and he was ready to bring up the drawbridge and lock himself in.

He dropped his briefcase onto his dining room table and went straight for the bar, disrobing as he went.  His jacket he carefully draped over the back of an overstuffed chair.  His tie and holster followed, toed off his shoes, and then he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.  Suddenly, he felt like a kid in on a spring day, free and able to breathe.

Napoleon walked over the plush carpet, smiling contentedly at the refreshing cushion beneath his feet.  Not exactly grass, but close enough.

Pouring himself a double scotch on the rocks, he sipped, sighed happily and then, glass in hand, he went back to his briefcase.  On the top of some decommissioned files was a Romanian dictionary.

He took it and his drink back to his favorite chair and settled down.  He placed the glass down onto a coaster on the end table and opened the book.  The sheet of his scribbled transcription was folded neatly just inside the cover.

There was a pencil in the table’s drawer.  Napoleon found it after a moment and then he bent to the task of deciphering the letter as best he could.

An hour later, his ice completely melted, his scotch watery and nearly undrinkable, Napoleon sat back, a look of astonishment on his face.

“Illya Kuryakin!  You son of a… why didn’t you tell me?”

 

_And now you can finish this as you see fit for, after all, the best part of any story is having it end exactly as you want…_


End file.
